I Love Me

I take myself out on a date
And say, "Im looking fine"
I choose a most romantic place,
For me to wine and dine.
And when I compliment myself,
I oh so nearly blush,
As I confess, that I love me
And Im my biggest crush!

Charity

We are good Catholics.

Every summer we come down to reality from the plastic world in which we live. Yes, we come home, to India. On our first trip home, we felt guilty….was it that we had realized our cowardice in having run away from life as we saw, nothing had changed. There were as many beggar children malnourished and dying on the streets. At the other end of the spectrum, the rich had only found newer means to evade taxes and further their prospects in life. The divide was glaring and ugly.

One of the holiday rituals is giving to the poor, needy and deserving some of our wealth which should be rightfully theirs but which ironically, we ‘earn’ for doing a 9-5 job in air conditioned offices. We call it charity. It isn’t very different from pardon-certificates, if you consider the manner in which it is done – crisp new bank notes are sealed in virgin white envelopes and handed over to the organization head who will promise prayers and blessings for the family. We walk away with our conscience absolved and convince ourselves that we have indeed ‘done our part’. Next year, of course, the tradition continues.

Yes, charity is supposed to be a humbling experience.

"...."

This is beautiful and so true. Does anyone know who wrote this?
....
.....
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Don't walk behind me I may not lead

Don't walk in front of me, I may not follow

Just walk beside me, and be my friend.

My Pets

(1 dog. 1 cat. 1 rat)


First….
The dog chased the cat

And….
The cat chased the rat


THEN

They all chased ME
Around my flat!


.....and this (i hope!) should end all the pet poems for a while :)

I Never Need To Cut My Nails

I never need to cut my nails
They are quite neatly bitten
By my dog, who turns a nervous wreck
Each time he sees a kitten!

Pet Peeve

My pet can scratch
My pet can stretch
He barks all day
But hates to fetch
He always finds
A bone to pick
Or anything to
Sniff or lick
He’ll laze all day
Sleep like a log
No wonder that
All men are dogs!

A Clerihew

The Mystery of the Boil

Sir Arthur Conan Doyle
Developed a mysterious boil
But how it evolved and came about
Even Sherlock Holmes never found out!

"Special" Kiss

We knew that something was amiss
When bro' refused her "special" kiss
And asked instead for G I Joe
For having got a brilliant score
So mum was glum for half the day
Then sprightly she sprang up to say,
"Money can buy that and this,
There's nothing like a mother's kiss"
Beofore her son could even speak
She grabbed his shoulders, kissed his cheek
And with a most triumphant air
Sat back proudly on her chair
Till brother smirked and in a flash
Said....thanks, now could I have some cash!"

She

The lonely train chugs into Victoria Terminus railway station, the wailing siren, almost a signal, forewarning of what is to come. The Mumbai air hangs heavy, thick with soot like a demon god clutching in its hold, everyday lives and reducing life to ‘existence’. She picks up the folds of her cotton sari and with a silent prayer on her lips, sets her left foot down. A tide of commuters embarks the same train, the 6.00pm evening train to Jabalpur, where she had gone for her mothers funeral. In the death of her mother she had lost a part of herself. In the haste, the shoving and pushing through the mob, she realizes that she has left one chappal behind. In order to live from one day to the next, one must give a part of oneself; losing and living through the loss is the way of life. The weave of life is near thread bare but the human spirit does not give up easily. And the soul wills survival.

The stench of stale urine fills her nostrils; she scrunches her nose, grimacing, while waiting for her husband to receive her. She plays with the string of withered jasmine in her wispy hair, yearning for a fresh garland to adorn herself. After an hour long wait in futility, she decides to make her way to the bus stand, past the lustful stares of auto rickshaw drivers who with glazed eyes and betel stained teeth, motion her to enter into their vehicles. She ignores them and they shout out filthy dialogues from cheap pornographic films.

A deathly cold settles into the pit of her stomach as she waits at the 155 bus stop, unwelcome thoughts, realities that were buried deep inside her now clash through every nerve to slowly seep into her consciousness. The journey home is the longest ever she has had to make. She returns to find her husband lying, like a slovenly dog in the midst of shards of glass, broken bottles of cheap liquor. Her children hold on to each other in a dark corner of the chawl. Their faces are unforgiving and in their eyes, she sees death. Her daughter’s wormy legs are slashed; there is no longer the innocent fear in her eyes. She is physically betrayed, emotionally broken. Here, there is a crime that goes beyond denunciation.